


The Queen, the King, and their Knight

by meanpancake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Pre-Musketeers canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanpancake/pseuds/meanpancake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos owes Flea and Charon his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen, the King, and their Knight

**Author's Note:**

> A warning ahead: There is some kind of gross stuff about insects, more specifically flies, in this chapter. Other than that it's about wee Porthos being sad and hurt and lost (and finding a new family).

“Out of the way, boy.” The guard looked him in the eye and when he wouldn't move, the corner of his mouth twitched and he pushed him to the side.

Porthos didn't resist the fall. He hit the ground and cut his palms and knees on some broken glass that was scattered about the cobblestone. In an instant his hands turned wet with blood. The memory of a sharp pain crossed his mind, yet what he felt was... barely a sting. Something like a dull throb, maybe, but definitely not the pain he'd experienced before. It was odd, Porthos decided while he watched the remaining guards pass by, that the numbness had spread from his heart to his body.

 _Maybe I'm dying_ , he thought, but the idea of death didn't scare him like it used to. The sky was clear, the sun stood high and burned relentlessly down at Paris. For a while, he watched the people who crossed his sight. Sweat carved its way through the sheen of dirt that covered their faces and Porthos realized that he was cold under the layer of sweat that also covered his body. A weak stab of alertness washed through him and brought back pictures he had tried to forget: A worn-out body, shaking with both cold and fever. A fading smile. Restless eyes that turned glassy and then empty. His mother's dead face as he kissed her goodbye.

Porthos clenched his fists. Now his hands _did_ ache. He tried to get up again, but his legs gave in and he landed right at the spot where his wounds had painted the street red. His blood had attracted flies. Black, fat, and swirling around him. Funny, he hadn't noticed them before. Their buzzing filled his head and drowned out the noise on the street, the clatter of hooves, the blurred voices of people he didn't know.

 _Promise me to live a long and happy life. Promise me, Porthos._ The ghost of his mother's voice reached his mind. Tears sprang to his eyes and slipped over his cheek. It was unfair. Unfair of her to leave him behind and unfair of her to make him promise such a thing. But she was dying and he didn't have the heart to tell her the truth, to tell her that chances were impossibly high that he would end up dead on the streets before he grew strong enough to survive on his own and that he would undoubtly never be happy without her. He just couldn't tell her _that_. And so he had promised her, clutching her arm and forcing a smile. _I swear it, mama, I will._ The look of silent relief had accompanied her to her death.

Porthos dragged himself up, until he leaned against the wall of the nearest building. He felt heavy and dizzy. The glass glistened in the sun. Tiny insect legs tickled his skin, but he was too tired to shake them off.

 _Just for a minute_ , he told himself and closed his eyes. _Just for a minute..._

***

Porthos woke up with a flash of pain shooting through his head and found himself still leaning against that wall, a girl with braided hair kneeling beside him. Hastily, he tried to get up, but his body failed him. Again. Dread gripped at his heart and a small noise escaped his lips.

“Shush, calm down or you will hurt yourself even more.”

 _Leave me be_ , he wanted to say but managed only a weak whisper. The girl took his face into both hands and turned it so they faced each other properly. Her eyes were dark, her smile unreadable, and her skin of the same brown colour as his own. Porthos made himself hold her gaze, even though he was barely able to concentrate on anything but the exhaustion settling into his bones and dragging him back into unconsciousness.

The sun bled over the horizon, spilling orange and red light into the street. Nightfall. His heart beat pounded rapidly in his ears. He had been asleep for too long. This was what happened to those who didn't take care, to those who _lingered_. His mother had warned him, but he had been careless. He'd break his promise, he'd-

“You have nice shoes.”

For a moment, Porthos was too thrown by the girl's words to feel any more panic. Instead he felt a grim defiance and hissed: “They're mine.”

“They're too small for me anyway.” She laughed and shook her head. “We don't rob our own, kid.”

Porthos made a face. “I don't belong to you.”

“That so, huh? Guess I'll leave you here to die, then.”

“I'm not dying.”

“What was that? I can't hear you over the army of flies that's here to eat your dead body by the first light of the morning.” She shrugged and Porthos didn't answer. He didn't want to think about the flies crawling into his body, but the image was there and he shivered. The girl placed a warm hand on his shoulder and said: “I'm supposed to take you back to the Court.”

“Will you kill me?” He hated how small his voice sounded.

“What do you think?”

Her smile was infectious and she pulled him up, when suddenly other children – young, thin, and dirty like himself – appeared. They half-led, half-carried him through alleys and streets, the girl he had talked to always keeping ahead of the group.

“Almost there,” she told him and flashed him another of her bright smiles. He wanted to hold on, but he couldn't.

Porthos blacked out before they reached their destination.

***

The Court of Miracles, as it turned out, did actually work miracles. Within a week Porthos was strong enough to walk by himself again. He'd escaped death, if barely.

The girl – Flea – had visited him daily and given him water and food. For the first time since his mother's death he didn't feel like he was starving. He felt... safe, and it was a strange notion, given the situation, but he embraced it without a second thought.

Whatever rumours about the Court were told among the citizens of Paris, one thing was true without doubt: The people of the Court took care of each other. The poor, the orphaned, the sick, and those who were deemed unnatural because of behaviour or looks were gathered here together – and it worked out, even if their methods of survival were oftentimes crude and made Porthos feel sick.

“Look, you can keep that coin if I can't take it from you without you noticing.” Flea smiled and Charon laughed softly. The dark-skinned boy had a fierce smile and an even fiercer protective instinct when it came to those society had abandoned or cast out. He couldn't be much older than ten, but he already was the leader of the kids who had brought him back here. Porthos knew that he owed him his life. And he was going to repay his debt; to Charon and to Flea and to the others who had been part of his rescue.

“So what do you say, little one?”

Porthos frowned. “I'm not playing this game again, you'll win anyway.” He had learned. He hadn't won the last three times Flea showed off her pick-pocketing skills either.

Charon patted his head and grinned. His voice was kind, when he said: “You can't beat Flea.”

“Well, it's time I showed you how to steal – and get away with _both_ your hands.” She winked at him and something inside his stomach turned to ice. He looked at his hands, still bandaged and hardly movable without pain, and kept quiet. After a moment, Flea put the coin back into her pocket. She sat down beneath him and pulled Charon with her.

“We don't have to start today, you know. It's not like you're going anywhere. We have time, right?”

“Right,” Charon agreed and gave him a gentle smile. Flea took his hand.

Porthos nodded, finally, managing a small smile.

They had time.

**Author's Note:**

> I made Flea non-white in this fic, because the series seriously lacks a WOC character (no offense to Fiona Glascott though, she's amazing).


End file.
